


Of Elevators and Art History

by Taupefox59



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taupefox59/pseuds/Taupefox59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is only one elevator in the Arts building, which Enjolras and Grantaire take together up to Art History. </p><p>If only they had the courage to actually *talk* to each other...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Elevators and Art History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodscout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/gifts).



> If I've mucked anything up about EDS or anything else, my sincerest apologies, please let me know and I'll fix it - everything I know I learned from Wikipedia.
> 
> For the prompt:
> 
> There is only one elevator in the Arts building and Enjolras (with EDS, uses crutches/wheelchair) and Grantaire (uses a cane) are forced into the same lift as each other every time they have a class there. They develop a silent camaraderie and neither of them have the nerve to speak to the other.  
> (Afro-Brazillian Grantaire & Melanesian Enjolras would really be appreciated!)

The first time that they shared the lift, neither of them said anything. Enjolras was having a bad day; exhausted from the pain flaring in his joints. He was in his chair today, though usually he was perfectly fine to get around on crutches. There were some days though, when it was just… easier. His chair was electronic, so it wouldn’t exacerbated the hyper-mobility of his elbows, or damage his wrists.

Ehlers-Danlos ran in his family. Enjolras had inherited it from his father, but at least he’d known and been able to access healthcare from an early age. No one had been fighting him on his diagnosis, and he’d been able to get the help he needed. He knew that it wasn’t so easy for some, and that knowledge burned through him. There was so much in the world that wasn’t as it should be. So many people who had to fight so hard simply for the chance to exist.

He reached up and ran his knuckles along his close-cropped blond hair, took a deep breath and tried to remember. Education was the key to changing the world. If he wanted to make a difference and get himself into a position where anyone would take him seriously, he would have to work four times harder than a white person who never had to use crutches. He had to pace himself. He’d seen the burn-out that took down so many of his friends, so many activists, who when faced with the wall of the world couldn’t maintain their quixotic zeal. 

It was like anything else. It took work, and if he pushed too hard too fast, he would get nowhere but farther back than where he started from. He’d learned with pain management, he’d learned with physical therapy. He’d learned visiting doctor after doctor, and he’d learned from the first rallies that he’d planned; the empty ones, where the only crowd had been the choir he’d already preached to.

It was all about angles. He would get his degree, and then start his attack.

 

The last thing that Enjolras was expecting was a boy with a cane to get in next to him. The lift was small, especially with Enjolras in his chair, but even so, the other boy came in and brought with him the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke. The other boy shook finger-wide dreads out of his face, and Enjolras could see red, blood-shot eyes that stood out in a sickly way from warm brown skin.

The boy was beautiful and Enjolras, for once, had nothing to say. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, holding in judgements he knew he was in no place to make. He wanted to say something - anything - but he knew his own blunt nature would only make a mess of any attempted conversation.

The boy hit the button for the third floor - the same as where Enjolras was headed.

“Do you need a different floor?” the boy’s words were rounded and soft, accented in a way that Enjolras couldn’t place. Enjolras shook his head mutely, and it was the last time they spoke.

The doors opened on the third floor, and they both headed for the same room. It was during roll call for Art History that Enjolras learned the boy’s name was Grantaire, and that his crush was going to be something that only got worse with time.

 

*****

 

It was the last day of midterm exams. Enjolras desperately wanted to say something to Graintaire, to do something to break the habitual silence that engulfed them every time they rode the lift together. Enjolras knew he sometimes went by R, but they’d shared a class for months and never spoken. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be that familiar. There were a lot of things that Enjolras wanted to ask about that he thought were most likely off limits. Like the way that R had never shown up again with that same sallow, blood-shot look from the first day; the way that he no longer smelled of smoke, but Enjolras thought he could see the edge of a nicotine patch sticking out from under the edge of R’s sleeve some days. Despite his curiosity, Enjolras knew far better than to start asking invasive questions, especially in an elevator, when there was no way for R to escape the conversation.

They were on the lift as usual though Enjolras was only with his crutches that day, so there was considerably more space. Graintaire hit the button to take them to the third level, and they waited in their customary silence for the lift to start moving upward. 

Which it did, until it slowed and stopped at something that was most certainly not the third floor.

They waited in silence to see if the lift would start moving again, or if the doors would open, but they didn’t. Eventually Enjolras broke the silence.

“Is there an emergency call button?”

Grantaire blinked up, then glanced at the panel of buttons. “Er, yeah, hang on.” He reached over and had almost pressed the button when the lift began to shake and then slowly started making its way up again.

Enjolras and Grantaire shared a nervous glance.

Finally,  _ finally _ the door opened on the third floor. Grantaire motioned for Enjolras to get out first, and then followed quickly, both of them turning to stare at the closing doors of the lift after they were safe in the hallway of the third floor.

“So.” Grantaire said. “That was terrifying.”

“I’m so glad I never have to ride that thing again.” Enjolras said, with heartfelt feeling.

R winced. “I’m an art major.”

Without thinking, Enjolras reached out to put a hand on Grantaire’s arm, “I am so sorry to hear that.”

Grantaire just grinned. “The torture of an artist has to start somewhere doesn’t it?”

Enjolras looked pained. “No, it really doesn’t.”

Grantaire laughed, and the sound of it was warm and beautiful, and Enjolras fully forgot what the rest of his response was going to be.

“Don’t believe in the ‘starving artist’ aesthetic?”

And before Enjolras knew it, he was knee deep in his feelings, words coming out of his mouth without him even realizing it, about how no one should have to suffer for art, and how capitalism was the true thing to fight against, but choosing to starve was an inherently privileged position, and when he realized that he was already about one-third of the way through explaining his thoughts, he stopped, cursing himself. The last thing he’d wanted to do was to scare off R with his ready-made speeches or the way that his thoughts always seemed to be so much more than other people were prepared for without warning.

But Grantaire wasn’t staring, there was no judgement in those clear brown eyes. Only shining happiness, with a smile tugging at R’s full mouth.

Enjolras stared for a moment.

“You know, you always stop yourself.”

Enjolras frowned.

“I want to know what you were going to say.” Grantaire clarified, raising an eyebrow. “Where were you going with that?”

Enjolras could feel his mouth dropping open, and for a moment he struggled with finding words. “You don’t agree.” He finally settled on.

“Doesn’t matter if I agree.” Grantaire said with a grin, “You clearly believe it. I’m interested.”

“But you don’t believe me.” Enjolras said, distantly aware that they were probably both late to class by now, and not caring.

“I don’t need to believe.” Graintaire said, “I believe that you believe. That’s enough for me.”

“What?”

Grantaire leaned in close and smiled, white teeth flashing against the dark of his skin. “I’ve listened to you in class all semester. You have so much more to say than anyone else does. You feel so much more than anyone else seems to. I want to know what you have to say.” He paused then looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes. “If - I mean…” He swallowed then licked his lips. “Yeah. I want to know what you have to say.” His eyes darted away, “About - about more  than just art, maybe, too.”

It was suddenly hard for Enjolras to breathe. “Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7:00.”

“What?”

“I run a meeting. A club - L’ABC - we meet at the Musain. You should come.”

Grantaire’s smile was brilliant. “I would like that a lot.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but to smile back. “Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

“Then I’ll be sure not to disappoint.” Graintaire said, and Enjolras felt something shift between them, like the entire semester had just been waiting for a fruit to ripen. It was finally the right time, and maybe there would be more to it than those few minutes in the elevator three times a week.

“I’m R, by the way.”

“I’m Enjolras.”

R grinned. “I know.”

Enjolras could only stare as hope blossomed in his chest. Suddenly his crush stood on the brink of reality. “We should - we should probably get to class.”

“After you.” Graintaire said, tapping his cane against the floor as he exaggeratedly gestured for Enjolras to go first.

Enjolras could feel himself blushing, but suddenly his art history midterm was starting to feel like the best thing that had ever happened to him.


End file.
